A Lady Never Tells

by Candace Camp

  “Are you—Americans?” he asked abruptly.

  Mary laughed. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “A lucky guess,” he replied with a faint smile.

  Mary smiled back, and her face flooded with light. Royce’s hand tightened involuntarily on the handle of his cane, and he forgot what he had been about to say.

  Mary, too, seemed suddenly at a loss for words, and she glanced away, color rising in her cheeks. Her hands went to her hair, as though she had suddenly realized its tumbled-down state, and she fumbled to repin it.

  “I— oh, dear, I seem to have lost my hat.” She glanced around.

  “If I may be so bold, Miss Bascombe. You and your sisters are—well, this is not a very savory area, I fear. Are you by chance lost?”

  “No.” Mary straightened her shoulders and returned his gaze. “We aren’t lost.”

  Behind her, one of her sisters let out an inelegant snort. “No, just stranded.”

  “Stranded?”

  “We got off the ship this afternoon,” explained the youngest-looking of the Bascombe sisters, turning large gray-green eyes on him. Her voice lowered dramatically. “We are all alone here, and we haven’t any idea where to go. You see—”

  “Lily!” Mary cut in sharply. “I am sure that Mr. Winslow isn’t interested in hearing our tale.” She turned to Sir Royce. “Now, if you will be so kind as to hand back our case, we will be on our way.”

  “Sir Royce,” he corrected her gently.

  “What?”

  “My name. ’Tis Sir Royce, not Mr. Winslow. And I will be happy to return your case.” He plucked it from Gordon’s clasp and handed it to Mary but kept hold of it, saying, “However, I cannot simply walk away and leave three young ladies alone in this disreputable part of the city.”

  “It is all right, really,” Mary argued.

  “I insist. I will escort you to …” He paused significantly.

  “An inn,” Mary said firmly, and tugged the case from his hand. Her chin went up a little. “Indeed, we are most grateful for your help, sir. If you will but direct us toward an appropriate inn, we shall not bother you anymore.”

  Sir Royce bowed to her, schooling his face to hide his amusement. Her words were a dismissal as much as a thanks, he knew. Well, he thought, Miss Mary Bascombe might find dismissing him was easier said than done.

  Mary watched as Sir Royce stepped into the street and casually lifted his cane. To her amazement, a carriage a block down started toward them. She turned back to him with a newfound respect.

  She had not been sure what to think when she first saw this elegantly dressed gentleman standing in the thief’s path. He had hardly seemed the sort to engage in any sort of rough-and-tumble with the fellow who had just stolen her precious satchel. Yet, with seemingly no effort, he had tripped up the thief and given her back her case. And now he had managed to conjure up a hack for them in this uncongenial place.

  Mary studied Sir Royce. She had never seen anyone with quite his air of sophistication and elegance. His clothes and boots were impeccable, and he moved with a sort of languid grace that bespoke a man of leisure. Yet it was plain to anyone with eyes that the shoulders beneath his jacket were broad and the thighs encased by his tight-fitting pantaloons were firmly muscled. This was not the effete, weak aristocrat she had heard more than one American describe as a typical British man.

  She must have been staring, for Sir Royce offered her a smile. Mary’s stomach fluttered in a most disconcerting way. It was absurd, she told herself, that Sir Royce’s smile should have such an effect on her. Indeed, if she was honest, everything about the man, from his thick blond hair to his leaf green eyes, seemed to affect her in an unfamiliar way. It simply was not like her to be so strongly aware of a man’s looks—much less to feel her pulse speed up when he smiled at her. What was this peculiar warmth that curled deep within her as she gazed at him? And why did that dimple in his strong chin seem so appealing?

  Sternly, she pushed such thoughts from her head. This was no time to turn foolishly girlish. She had heard tales of the sorts of people who lurked in cities, just waiting to swindle the unwary—or worse.

  “How is it that you are able to summon a hack so easily?”

  He raised an aristocratic eyebrow at her tone. “Suspicious, Miss Bascombe? You are probably right to be so. But I am not a white slaver patrolling the docks for lovely young American girls to abduct. And it is no hack, but my own carriage. I came in it because I was searching for young Gordon here, and I was unsure in what state I might find him. I had no desire to escort him home afoot if he was, um, a bit worse for the wear.”

  “Oh.”

  Mary studied him. There was no way to know if Sir Royce was trustworthy. But he had, after all, tripped up the thief and returned her case to her, which indicated that he was a law-abiding sort. And while this Gordon fellow with him was most oddly dressed, Sir Royce appeared eminently respectable. Even to an unpracticed eye such as hers, his glossy boots and elegant coat bespoke a man of wealth, and his bearing was certainly that of a gentleman. He could be all pretense, she supposed, but she and her sisters outnumbered him; surely he could not overpower them all. Besides, they had nothing that anyone would wish to steal—that thief would have been severely disappointed when he opened her case and found it contained nothing but documents. She had heard tales of white slavers, of course, but Mary could not believe that a white slaver looked and acted as this man did.

  “Please, allow me to escort you to a respectable inn,” he urged.

  Mary hesitated for a moment, glancing at her sisters. Lily looked decidedly wilted, and even Camellia nodded, pulling her hand out from her skirts to show Mary the knife she held. “I can take care of him, Mare.”

  Sir Royce’s eyebrows vaulted upward, and Gordon, following Royce’s gaze, goggled and exclaimed, “Bloody hell, is that a knife?”

  “I believe so,” Royce replied calmly, adding, “Language, Coz—there are ladies present.”

  Gordon appeared as if he might dispute this statement, but at a look from the older man, he subsided, saying only, “Beg pardon.”

  “Gordon—can you manage on your own?” Royce continued. “I fear there isn’t enough room in my carriage for all of us.”

  The other man, still eyeing Camellia’s knife, nodded. “Of course. I mean, if you’re sure it’s safe …”

  “I think I can hold my own,” Sir Royce assured him. “Will you promise me that you will go straight home?”

  “Home! Not there!” Gordon protested. “Mother’s in residence here.”

  “Very well. Then straight to your father. He’s at the estate, is he not?”

  Gordon looked pained, but nodded grudgingly. “Yes. I’ll go to Father and tell him everything.”

  “Good. If I find out differently, I shall lay this all in Oliver’s hands.”

  Gordon groaned, but nodded again and trudged off down the street.

  “Will he be all right?” Lily asked, watching him walk away. “He seemed a trifle, well …”

  “Drunk,” Camellia helpfully added.

  Sir Royce looked somewhat nonplussed, but said only, “Yes. You are correct. I am afraid he has overindulged somewhat. But I think he will manage well enough.”

  “Is that why he is dressed that way?” Lily asked. “Because he has been drinking?”

  Royce let out a short laugh and shook his head. “No, I fear he was probably quite sober when he bought those clothes.” He glanced around. “Now, um, I assume you had some baggage?”

  “Oh! Our bags! Rose will be worried sick about us,” Mary exclaimed. The girls all whirled around and started at a run back in the direction from which they had come.

  With a sigh, Royce stepped up onto the tiger’s footplate of his carriage and grabbed the handle, gesturing the coachman forward. “I fear we must follow them, Billings.”

  “Aye, sir,” the coachman replied, his colorless voice indicating that he had long ago accepted the fits and starts of his em
ployer.

  The girls ran to the docks, the carriage lumbering behind them. Royce’s jaw dropped open when he saw, perched atop two battered trunks, a raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty … with a long rifle resting across her lap.

  “Good Gad!” Royce hopped lightly to the ground and strode toward the cluster of girls. “There is another one of you.”

  “Yes, this is my other sister, Rose.”

  “Of course it is.” He made an elegant leg to the lovely young woman, who shyly nodded back. “And I see that you brought a rifle with you.”

  “Of course. We couldn’t just leave Father’s gun behind.”

  “Naturally …” Royce replied faintly. “And who knows when one might have use of it? Any other weapons about your persons? Pistols, perhaps?”

  “They’re in our bags,” Lily told him. “We didn’t think we would need them, really.”

  “Mm. I would venture that a rifle—and your sister’s knife—should be enough for everyday occurrences.” He turned toward his driver, who had followed him from the carriage. “Well, Billings, load up the luggage, and we shall be on our way.”

  Royce opened the door of the carriage and stretched out his hand toward Mary. “Miss Bascombe …”

  Mary herded her sisters over to the vehicle, and Royce handed them up into the carriage, Mary hanging back until last. She would have liked to grab the handle beside the door and swing herself up into the carriage, but she could not, without rudeness, ignore Sir Royce’s outstretched hand. She couldn’t explain even to herself quite why she was reluctant to take Sir Royce’s hand. She only knew that she dreaded the contact—and at the same time was somehow eager for it.

  Royce turned from handing the last of her sisters into the carriage. Mary hesitated, then reached out and slipped her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers lightly. She could feel the heat of his skin; he seemed unusually warm to her—or was it just that her own hands had grown suddenly icy?

  She looked up into his face. She was closer to him now than at any time before, and she could see clearly, even in the growing dusk, how sinfully long and thick his lashes were. They were the same rusty brown as his eyebrows, darker than his thick blond hair, and they accentuated the bright green of his eyes. He was looking straight into her eyes, and there was in his gaze an intensity, a heat, that made her feel suddenly shy. She cast her eyes down; she could feel color rising in her cheeks. Almost imperceptibly, his fingers tightened on hers.

  Mary stepped quickly up into the carriage, and for an instant it seemed as though he might hold on to her hand, but then he released her. Her three sisters had squeezed onto one seat, so she sat down on the seat across from them, realizing that she would have to ride next to Sir Royce, who, after a moment’s consultation with his driver, entered the carriage and sank onto the soft leather seat beside Mary.

  Mary, avoiding his gaze, looked around her at the luxurious vehicle. She had never been in a carriage of such elegance and comfort. It was roomy, with wide benches cushioned in dark red leather, and behind their backs were squabs of the same butter-soft leather. Short, heavy curtains framed the windows, drawn back to admit the dwindling evening light.

  The carriage started forward over the uneven cobblestones. Mary was very aware of Royce’s presence beside her. His broad shoulders seemed to take up a great deal of space, and his muscular thighs were only inches from her. She held herself tight against the other wall of the carriage, afraid the vehicle might lurch and send her knocking against him.

  For a long time, there was only silence in the carriage, the four girls and their rescuer regarding each other carefully. Finally, Sir Royce said, “May I ask whence you young ladies have traveled to London?”

  “Three Corners,” Lily answered promptly. “That’s a little town not far from Philadelphia. In Pennsylvania. The United States.”

  He nodded. “I see. And what brings you to England?”

  “Lily …” Mary sent her sister a warning glance.

  Lily looked at her, surprised. “But what’s wrong with—”

  “No, no doubt your sister is quite right,” Sir Royce said easily. “One can never be too cautious in the city. It can be a dangerous place. Though,” he added with a glance toward Camellia, “I am not entirely certain that holding a knife at the ready is necessary. It could lead people to leap to the wrong conclusion.”

  “We don’t usually go about bearing arms, Mr.—I mean, Sir Royce,” Mary put in. “But, as you said, the city can be a dangerous place. So Camellia decided to wear her knife today.”

  “Wear?” He looked blankly at Camellia, as if he would see it hanging about her neck.

  Camellia smiled faintly and reached down to lift the hem of her skirt, exposing a bit of her shapely calf, to which was strapped a small leather scabbard. She bent and slipped the blade she had been carrying back into the scabbard, then shook out her skirts and regarded Sir Royce evenly.

  “I see.” It gave Mary a small spurt of satisfaction to see the man, who was far too cool by half, look faintly disconcerted. “Handy. Well, clearly, I need not worry about your safety.”

  “No,” Mary agreed firmly. “You need not.”

  Mary was not sure why she was so reluctant to reveal anything about herself or her sisters to this man. He had, after all, done nothing harmful to them—or even suspicious. On the contrary, he had done them more than one good turn. Perhaps it was simply that this Englishman affected her in ways she was unused to or that she felt somehow unsure of herself around him. Or maybe she was just irritated by the relief that had swept her when Sir Royce had taken charge of their problem and set out to escort them to an inn. It was so nice, so easy, to put all her worries into someone else’s hands for once, to not be the one in charge, entrusted with protecting her sisters and leading them to a better life.

  But that was something she absolutely could not do. She had learned from her mother’s bitter experience that putting one’s entire welfare in a man’s hands was foolish. Better by far to rely only on oneself.

  Sir Royce held her challenging gaze for a long moment. There was something in his eyes—interest? amusement? a challenge of his own?—that both intrigued and confused her. Finally it was Mary who turned her face away, no longer able to hold his gaze.

  After that, there was silence—even Lily, usually curious to a fault, was too exhausted to ask any questions—until the carriage rolled at last to a stop in the courtyard of an inn. Sir Royce got out, telling the girls to remain inside. Mary and her sisters exchanged a glance and promptly scrambled out of the vehicle after him, following him into the inn.

  When they walked inside, they saw Royce speaking to a small man who was nodding and smiling obsequiously. Royce turned at the sound of the sisters’ entrance and cast them a wry look, but made no protest at their ignoring his instructions. He turned back, said a few more words, then withdrew something from his pocket and handed it to the man.

  The man scurried off, and Sir Royce came over to Mary and the others. “Holcombe is the innkeeper of the Boar and Bear, and he has suggested that you wait in the private room while he makes sure that the bedchambers are turned out in the quality you deserve. My driver will bring in your things.”

  A maid appeared to show them into one of the private areas set aside for the drinking or dining convenience of their guests who did not care to rub elbows with the other occupants of the tavern and inn. After a few minutes, she appeared again, carrying a pot of tea and mugs for the girls, as well as assurances that she would soon bring them steaming bowls of stew if they liked.

  All the girls agreed that they would very much like it. Sir Royce cast a comprehensive glance around the room and said, “Well, ladies, it appears that you are well settled here, so I will bid you adieu.”

  Mary’s sisters clustered around him, showering him with thanks. Even shy Rose offered him a blushing smile with a soft assurance of her gratitude. Only Mary kept her distance, watching Royce with a cool and thoughtful air. When he had bid eac
h of the others good-bye, Royce turned to Mary and swept her an elegant bow.

  “Miss Bascombe. It has been a pleasure.”

  “Indeed.” Mary nodded, realizing that her gesture came out too primly. She was, she thought, appearing ungrateful, but she could not seem to relax around him.

  He hesitated, then reached inside his coat, saying, “Allow me to give you my card, in case—”

  Mary held up her hand. “No. Please. That is very kind of you, but I assure you, we will be fine. I will contact our grandfather tomorrow.”

  “Ah, then you do have family here?”

  “Yes.” Mary could see further questions forming in his eyes, and stepped forward quickly, opening the door into the hallway and turning to him in a clear gesture of dismissal. “Thank you, Sir Royce. I appreciate all you have done for us.”

  With a wry look at her, he laid his card upon the table, then tipped his hat to Mary and stepped past her into the hallway. Mary, with a quick glance back at her sisters, followed him into the hall, closing the door behind her .

  “Sir Royce …”

  He turned inquiringly.

  “As I said, I appreciate what you have done for us, but—I saw you give that man money.”

  “Man? What man?”

  “The innkeeper. I cannot allow you to pay for our accommodations. We do not even know you. And I am quite capable of paying our way. We are not penniless, I assure you.” That, she thought, was not entirely a lie; there were still a few coins left in her purse.

  “Of course not,” he replied smoothly. “I would never presume in such a manner. What I gave him was not payment for the rooms. ’Twas merely a trifle, a small … incentive, shall we say, to ensure the innkeeper’s immediate attention to rooms for you.”

  “Then I shall pay you back for that.”

  Sir Royce waved such an idea away, and Mary set her jaw mulishly. “I insist, sir. I have no desire to be beholden. I cannot, of course, compensate for the kindnesses you have done us, but I can and will repay you for any money you have spent on us.”

  “My dear girl, it was nothing. I haven’t even any idea what I handed him.”